Special Delivery
by ALetteredWoman
Summary: While out on the road, the boys find themselves under attack. By a witch? A curse? They're not sure. But the results are...messy. Silly crack, based on a prompt. More to come!
1. Chapter 1

There were pancakes. Everywhere.

They drooped over the hotel room's lampshades. They were plastered to the walls, the ceiling. Stacks of pancakes littered the sofa, the dining table, the kitchen counter. The window looked like someone had been shooting pancake dough - blat, blat, blat! - in spurts across the glass, and then the hot Phoenix sun had baked the lumps in place.

Garbage can? Pancakes. Sink? Pancakes. With a bit of neck craning, they could see that the hotel room's bathroom had been decorated the same way: pancakes.

The air smelled sweet, cloying, overpowering. The pancakes had been locked in the closed room, hot sunlight beaming in, the entire day, and the pancake aroma mixed with the normally stale hotel room smell they were used to. It was like being gassed.

Sam stepped back into the hallway, gagging and gasping for a breath of fresher air. Dean stayed in the doorway, stunned, his wide eyes wandering from one patch of cooked dough to the next.

"Well. Damn," was his only comment. It hung in the air for a moment, unanswerable.

"What the hell?!" he added, scratching the back of his head. He swung around, pointing an accusatory finger at his brother. "Did _you_ do this, some kind of prank?" Sam started to say something, but Dean stopped him by shaking his head. "Nope. Not you, can't be; we were together the whole goddamned day." He turned back to glare at the mess. While he watched, another pancake appeared in the air before him and fell with a soft plop to land on the edge of the table. Unbalanced, it slowly slid from the table to the floor in a crumpled heap.

"Son of a bitch. Magic. I _hate_ magic," he snarled. Sam, who had moved up behind him to peer into the room again, snickered, then sighed.

"I suppose we need to change rooms..."

Dean transferred his glare to him. "Oh, yeah, and just what do we say to them? 'Gee, sorry, sir, but someone's magicked our room so it filled with pancakes - " Another pancake plopped softly onto the sofa. Dean gritted his teeth. "'Oh, and, by the way, the pancakes keep appearing, and we can't stop them, so could we please have another room?' Yeah, I don't think so."

"Well, at least they haven't gotten into our duffles, right?" Sam's voice was hopeful.

"Thank god for small favors." Dean stepped into the room, bending down to collect the pancakes from the floor in front of him. He cleared a path to the garbage can and tossed them in. Sam, sighing again, stepped in and cleared a similar path to the nearest window, peeled dough off the glass, and wrenched it open. He looked down at the handful of pancakes he was holding, shrugged, and tossed them out into the parking lot. A pair of pigeons strutted across the pavement to peck at them, cooing.

"So - " Dean grabbed garbage bags from under the kitchenette sink, handing one to Sam. "Here. Keep an eye out for hex bags."

Sam just nodded and began stuffing pancakes into the bag.

A half hour passed. They had cleared away most of the mess, their cleaning efforts interrupted at irregular intervals by another pancake materializing and falling onto whatever was beneath it. Close inspection of typical hiding spots had revealed not a single hex bag. Dean slumped back onto the newly-cleared sofa, scrubbing his hands through his short hair.

Sam grabbed a pair of beer bottles from the small refrigerator, popped one open, and handed the other to Dean. Leaning against the wall, he took a long swallow, tilted his head back, and blew away the hair drooping in front of his eyes. "So: not a witch. Then what is it?"

They both watched another pancake's arrival and fall.

"Curse. Gotta be. The question is..." He paused to pop his own beer bottle open, tossing the cap in the general direction of the garbage. When it clattered on the floor, Sam snorted and leaned down to grab it. He held it up, squinting at his brother.

"Dude. Really? You'd make a lousy basketball player."

"Good thing I wasn't planning to be," Dean grunted. He swigged from his beer and continued, "Anyway. The question is, are _we_ cursed, or have we somehow glommed onto a cursed object without realizing it?" His eyes wandered the room as if he were hoping the mentioned object would leap up and announce its presence.

Sam tilted his head back against the wall and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "What have we picked up today?" Counting on his fingers, he went on. "Food from the grocery store...beer - "

Dean groaned. "No no NO, we don't have cursed beer, dammit! I won't stand for it!" Catching the skeptical eyebrow tilt from his brother, he said, "C'mon. Cursed objects usually have something to do with their...effects. Beer and pancakes don't mix, everyone know that."

"Oh, I dunno, Dean. Aren't there beer-batter pancakes?" Dean gave him a disgusted look. "Okay, I know it's a reach, but I can't remember anything we brought into the room that fits."

"Forks? Knives? Plastic cutlery shit we got from Burger Boy?"

"Hunh." Sam leaned sideways over the garbage can, dug out the bag that they had brought in for lunch, and peered in it. "Well, there _is_ a fork..." he said doubtfully. He held the bag up with a quizzical look. Surging up from the sofa, Dean snatched it from his hand and grabbed one of the garbage bags filled with pancakes.

"Grab another, and let's trot them outta here. Maybe it _was_ that fork." He didn't sound convinced. Shrugging, Sam collected two more bags of pancakes, and followed his brother out the door.

When they returned from tossing the bags in the hotel dumpster, there were five new pancakes strewn around the room.

"God _dam_ mit!" Dean swore.

Sam made a quick sweep around the room collecting the magical detritus. "Not the fork," he said.

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Ya think?!"

Sam threw a pancake at him.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't much of a curse, they agreed.

Dean had swung out to grab them burgers and more beer, and Sam spent the time researching...well, what could he research? "Cursed griddles"? "Breakfast curses"? He wasn't quite sure, but went doggedly about it anyway. Countless google searches pulled up breakfast menus from various chain restaurants, Halloween pranks, and a wide array of cast iron griddles for sale from Williams-Sonoma or preppers' lists of bugout gear or camping equipment. He tried "flapjacks" and "griddle cake" and "Johnny cake" - any variation on the name he could find.

There were lots of tempting recipes; he bookmarked them for Dean to try once they figured this damned thing out. Many sounded healthy and included fresh fruit, a win-win in his book.

In between searches and hits, he cleared away whatever random pancakes appeared. There was no rhyme or reason; the timing seemed completely random. Sometimes three appeared in a row in as many seconds, sometimes five minutes went by with no activity.

Still: not very threatening, just irritating.

The sound of the door opening interrupted his latest attempt. Dean backed into the room holding bags, a cardboard drink tray, and a newspaper. Pivoting around, he pushed the door shut with a hip, then strode forward to drop the food on the table. Then, with a flourish, he dropped the newspaper in front of Sam and slapped it.

"Yo. Lookie that," he said, pointing to a headline.

"Peoria's Pancake Prankster Strikes Again!," Sam read out loud.

Sam snatched the paper and began reading. Dean leaned over his shoulder, stabbing a finger at the accompanying picture of an eerily familiar scene: a retro-style diner, all stainless steel and neon and checkered floor, littered with pancakes. Draped over the counter. Hanging from neon fixtures. Dotting the floor. Pancakes everywhere.

"Dean," Sam breathed. "That's where we ate breakfast this morning!"

"Yup." Swinging away, Dean grabbed a chair, reversed it, and sat down, draping his arms over the back. "Certainly is. Mighty interesting coincidence, yeah?"

Sam absently reached for the fast food bag and pulled out a cheeseburger, still concentrating on the article.

"'...for the third third time in two weeks...manager has no idea how it's being done...Dan Stricks, a waiter at the diner, claims to have seen pancakes appearing in the air...'" He paused for a bite of burger. With his mouth full, he said, "We need to talk to him. This guy, Stricks."

Dean rummaged in the bag of food and pulled out French fries. "Already talked to him. He's weirded out big time, claims he musta been drunk." Sam quirked an eyebrow at him, and Dean shrugged. "Dude. We're used to random weird shit, civilians aren't. Anyway, I'm guessing we were contaminated or - or something - from being at the diner."

A pancake dropped on Dean's head. He snatched it off with a snarl and hurled it away like a frisbee, aiming at the garbage can. When it sailed in, he pumped a fist. "Yesss! He shoots! He scores!"

"The crowd goes wild, yeah, yeah." Sam frowned thoughtfully at the article. "So our next move is to check out the diner?"

"Tomorrow, dude. I just wanna eat, have a few beers, and sleep." As if conjured by his words, another pancake plopped down onto the middle of one of the beds. Dean stared at it with narrowed eyes and folded lips. "So any luck on countering magic pancakes?" Sam shook his head. "Damn. Got any wards or spells that can keep us flapjack-free during the night? Some sort of general-purpose keep-away thingummy?"

"Hunh. Hadn't thought of that." Sam pulled his tablet forward. "Lemme look. And gimme a beer."

* * *

Amazingly enough, while eating and drinking beers, Sam _did_ locate a general-purpose keep-away ward, or what he thought might work. Carrying his tablet over to the beds, he chalked the symbols around each one, checking the display, with Dean watching suspiciously.

"You sure that's gonna work?" He asked as a pancake appeared over the bed Sam was working on and landed squarely in the middle of the comforter.

"No, I'm not," Sam snapped. He pushed back the hair drooping into his face, forgetting the chalk he was holding. Dean said nothing, but his lips twitched.

"Dude. Use spray paint." He mimicked fanning chalk dust away from his face.

"Dude. I like to think of housekeeping trying to clean up our shit after we leave. Spray paint is hard to wash away. I only use it for _real_ wards, not for minor stuff like this."

"What?! You wanna smear the wards in the middle of the night when you go take a leak, and end up with a bed full of flapjacks?!"

Sam rolled his eyes, squatted back on his heels, and dusted his hands. "There. That should do it."

"Let's test it!" Dean's eyes lit up, and he grabbed the handy pancake, tossing it at the bed. The pancake sailed forward, stopped abruptly a few feet above it, and slid down an invisible dome, crumpling against the ward as it hit the floor. "Cool! Think it'll work for mosquitoes?!"

Sam flopped down on a bed, resting his forearm over his forehead. "Nah, don't think so. See, _we_ can get through. We're living beings. This ward seems geared toward keeping things - objects - out." He peered at Dean from under his arm. "Mosquitoes are living beings. Sorry, dude."

"Well, shit. Does it stop arrows? Bullets? Knives?" His mind was ticking away at possible strategic uses. Sam slid his arm beneath his back, pulled out the demon knife, and tossed it over towards the other warded bed. The knife, unimpeded, landed on the comforter.

Sam returned his arm to its resting place and mumbled, "Guess not. It's not a very strong spell."

"Well, shit. So all it's good for is keeping us safe from falling pastry..."

Sam's response was a snore. Dean snorted and started preparing for bed.

When they woke up in the morning, there were pancakes piled around their beds and scattered haphazardly around the hotel room. With a matching pair of groans, they started cleaning up again.


End file.
